The Bloody Doors Off

Gone way too soon.
That’s what they say.
Full of promise.
Of light.
Shining a light on fanciful ideas.
Stretching them into stories.
Filled with stardust.
But no longer.
For today we gather to mourn my creativity.
Taken far too soon (if you call 58 years too soon).
Some say my gift for stories was wasted.
That I fretted too much over the narrative.
That I couldn’t ride the wave of the unknown.
To let my fingers dance across the keyboard.
Discovering new worlds. New voices.
Allanah.
Myles.
Mary Berger.
Dexter Bishop.
All silenced now.
Because I doubted.
Because I was too scared.
To write.

Thank fuck I still have my looks, or I’d be 100 per cent screwed.